


Frighteningly Sticky

by say_thanks



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Foreplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/say_thanks/pseuds/say_thanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond and Q go on a private holiday together. Q is not impressed with the heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frighteningly Sticky

**Author's Note:**

> Short, silly little thing I wrote about a year ago.

The house was beautiful. High ceilings and archways and pots of flowers lining the porch that oversaw the private beach right outside the window; this was Bond’s secret, and it truly was exhilarating to share the experience with him.

Except the heat was stifling and the internet was slow and Q’s laptop kept burning his thighs.

“Dammit,” Q said under his breath, pushing the computer off his lap and onto the bed. He knew this was supposed to somewhat of a _holiday_ but honestly there was work that needed to be done and he absolutely did _not_ trust anyone back at Q branch to not mess something up. It’d only been a day and Q was already feeling separation anxiety from his desk.

That, and London’s weather. Barcelona was frighteningly sticky. Q was only wearing pyjama bottoms though it hardly made a difference; his entire backside was wet – sweat, come, did it matter anymore – and Q was sure if he stood up he’d have to peel the cotton away from his body. His ears were overheating underneath his hair and his chest was itchy from the accumulating sweat. His neck felt disgusting, the insides of his knees, worse. He’d take his glasses off to rub his nose only for it to get uncomfortable again seconds later. His laptop was scorching to touch. His chin dripped with sweat. It was just morning so it’d be getting hotter and wasn’t _that_ fantastic.

Q glanced over to Bond’s sleeping figure. He looked ridiculously majestic sprawled naked next to Q, sheets pooled around his waist, not hiding his morning erection. His arms lied simply at his sides, one hand resting over the chiselled chest and another just shy of Q’s knee. His expression was peaceful, which did cause Q to relax a little – they were here for Bond, who never got a break unless he decided to play dead, and though they’d only arrived last night, Bond already seemed less uptight and that _was_ the point of this whole ‘getaway fiasco’, as Q had been calling it.

Bond stirred, Q stared. The sun shone through the bedroom window in a horribly spectacular way, cooking up Q’s entire right side but creating an image of perfection over Bond. Still, quiet; you’d never guess what Bond’s life was like, looking at him like this. He’d have been handsome in any lifetime, but Q would’ve hoped the gods would spare him the traumatic childhood and upbringing, the stress and trust issues, the scars and ache that would never go away.

Lying like this next to Q, he could’ve been be any wealthy man, spending his annual leave with the younger lover, relaxing and enjoying the Spanish sun. Q took a soft breath and allowed himself to pretend for just a moment. How lovely that would’ve been. 

The laptop flashed and reality came back, laughing and tipping its hat at Q. Excellent. Emails. More problems to resolve with a poor internet connection and a sun intent on causing Q heatstroke. Bond’s house was all very fine and well, but its apparent lack of air-conditioner set it just a bar lower than Q’s very comfortable flat back home.

He recrossed his legs – cotton clinging to the backs of his knees – and hunched over the screen.

Q was in the middle of typing an angry email when he felt a hand moving up his back. He twisted around to see Bond watching him.

“Good morning,” Q murmured but Bond only blinked in acknowledgment. His hand continued up to Q’s bare shoulder, his fingers moving into the dip between the blades. Q resisted squirming and actually succeeded, that is, until Bond pressed down with his thumb and Q was helpless but to arch his back, grunting quietly as Bond massaged out the knots. To Q’s response, Bond’s lips curved up into something like a small smile, amusement dancing around in those eyes of his. Damn Bond. Q was a fully-grown, functioning man (well, sort of) but in the hands of this, this _womaniser,_ Q was simply putty.

“Should’ve known you’d bring the computer,” Bond eventually said, hand loosely resting around the back of Q’s neck.

Q forced himself to respond, forced himself to hold gaze with Bond, and not let it drop to his impressive erection. “Well, yes. Obviously,” Q replied. “You brought the gun, I get the computer.”

Bond chuckled. His eyes matched the glistening ocean next to him. How ridiculous. How soppy.  

Breaking eye contact, Q turned away and finished the email. Now he was hot but for a whole second reason. His fingers trembled as he typed. He struggled to maintain his composure as Bond slowly began to massage his neck, rubbing the bottom of Q’s scalp with his fingertips. Q found himself leaning back, only slightly, only slightly god dammit. There was work to be done, or at least, one more person to yell at, one more email to check and respond to, or at least, just read and make a note of, or at least –

“Q.”

“Yes, no, I’m busy,” Q lied, glaring at the screen.

“Q,” Bond repeated, positively _purring_ in a way no one should be able to. It was one syllable for god’s sake!

“Bond?” Q went for nonchalant, though he hardly succeeded. His voice may have cracked – it was possible.

“Put it away.”

“Put what away?”

Q expected a quip about his age, but instead Bond surged up and pressed his lips to Q’s shoulder, scraping his teeth to the side of Q’s throat, not bothering with a response _._ He reached across Q’s body and put a hand over Q’s, his other still massaging Q’s neck.

Bond’s breath was hot – it was always hot, even in London outside in the rain, with Q pressed against a dirty alley-wall whilst Bond palmed his arse, looming over Q, sheltering him from the wind – and Q flushed. He was stuck in the middle of writing _Quartermaster,_ having typed the _m_ key numerous times, though he stubbornly remained staring at his screen, even with Bond all but wrapped around him. 

When Bond didn’t reply, Q said, “I’ve got to – no, Bond – ”

Bond closed the laptop screen and pushed it to Q’s side of the bed. He slipped Q’s glasses off to leave them on the bedside table. 

Q muttered, “Work, I have to – work.”

“Do you now?” Bond crooned – he was _crooning_ now! Q was never going to win.

“Bond – ”

“Q,” Bond murmured, sultry and low and undeniably irresistible, all Q could come up with was, _shit._

Bond pulled Q back onto the bed, wasting no time with crawling over him. Q straightened out and sighed as Bond dove right back in for more, pushing Q’s damp fringe back for a taste of the sweat built up on Q’s forehead. His other hand moved down to Q’s pyjama bottoms, which were sticky now with pre-come as well as sweat, and Q automatically widened his legs, slotting Bond in between them.

“This is our – ” Bond nosed at Q’s ear, nipping at the lobe, murmuring, “ _– holiday.”_  He moved across to the edge of Q’s lips and emphasised, “Our _getaway fiasco.”_ Pressing kisses up to Q’s eyes, he added, “And all I want to do is eat good food and have – ”

Bond finally pushed his hand into Q’s pants and grasped his erection. Q jerked upwards, bringing an arm around to cling to Bond’s torso, fingers playing with the short hair at the nape of Bond’s neck. 

“ – lots of _sex,”_ Bond finished, smirking against Q’s lips.

And all Q could really manage to gasp out was, _“Charming.”_

“Quite,” Bond agreed, before kissing away any of Q’s further protests.

 

 


End file.
